by Alison Tyler
His good behavior was rewarded when Giovanna finally uttered the words he’d been longing to hear.
“Make me come.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Philip didn’t need telling twice. As soon as the words left his mouth, he shuffled forward, slipped his hands beneath her creamy, fleshy thighs and lowered his head to the prize between them. As his tongue touched her heated, swollen cunt, his cock leapt. She was delicious, but then, somehow he’d known she would be. How could such a woman be anything else?
He ate her pussy the best way he knew how: enthusiastically licking and nibbling at her labia, dipping his tongue into her saturated channel and sucking her engorged clit. Giovanna spoke no words of encouragement, and not so much as a moan or a sigh issued from those perfect lips, but the occasional involuntary twitch or thrust of her hips told Philip all he needed to know. Plus, he felt sure that if he was doing something wrong, she’d soon let him know. Giovanna wasn’t exactly backward in coming forward, which is how he’d ended up eating her out on a spiral staircase in her shop, having met her only a few hours previously.
In all of his previous sexual encounters, Philip had found that when going down on a woman, the noises she made were important to help him gauge how he was doing. The absence of any sounds from Giovanna, however, just made him try harder. If he could wrench even the tiniest moan from her, he’d be thrilled.
A tidbit of delight was thrown to him when, rather than making a noise, Giovanna moved her hands from where she’d been leaning back on them and tangled them into his hair and pulled him more tightly to her crotch. He took that as a sign that she was close to coming, and, remembering that her order had been “make me come” with no specifics as to how, he shifted his right hand from where it had been gripping her ample thigh and slipped two long fingers up inside her pussy. Maneuvering so he was stimulating her G-spot, Philip was hugely gratified when he heard a sharp intake of breath from Giovanna.
He decided there and then he was going to get a noise out of her, even if it killed him. Capturing her clit between his lips once more, he began to suck and nibble it as he stroked the soft pad of flesh deep inside her cunt. The walls of Giovanna’s pussy clenched tightly, and he felt a fresh surge of blood to his dick as he imagined how it would feel to have his shaft buried deep inside her instead of his fingers. He wondered if he would ever find out. He really hoped so.
Soon, the rippling of Giovanna’s pussy made him forget all about fucking her and concentrate solely on giving her the orgasm of her life. He worked his fingers roughly against her sweet spot and flicked at her clit with his tongue until his jaw ached. Suddenly, Giovanna’s grip on his hair tightened, and he heard a series of tiny grunts before she let go and her orgasm washed over her.
Philip whipped his fingers from her cunt and replaced them with his mouth, so he could taste the delicious juices that trickled from her. Tart, and yet somehow sweet at the same time. Philip couldn’t help the groan that came from his own lips as he sucked at her lower ones while she bucked against his face.
Giovanna’s movements slowed as her climax waned, and Philip felt the feeling come back into his scalp as she released her hold on his hair. As Giovanna then leaned back on her hands for a few seconds while she got her breath back, Philip expected her to recline on the steps for a little while. But no, she was made of tougher stuff than that.
Suddenly, she stood and snatched her skirt back into place before looking down at where Philip still crouched on the step. He paused, wondering what she would do next. A curt nod, perhaps?
Giovanna managed to surprise him again. She leaned down and patted him on the head, not unlike the way you’d pat a dog, and said, “Very good.”
Heat rushed to Philip’s face. He’d pleased her, and that pleased him. He still had a raging hard-on, but somehow, he didn’t care. Making Giovanna happy was more important, and he suspected that he’d get rewarded at some point.
Several weeks later, and he was still waiting. Giovanna was really making him work hard for his reward, which was why he was flat on his back being used as a human book rest. Sure, over time she’d given him little rewards, like more pats on the head and even allowing him to rest his head in her lap, but she hadn’t yet allowed him to come. She’d even forbidden him from masturbating, claiming she would know if he did it when he wasn’t with her. Philip was too frightened to take the risk.
He wasn’t miserable, though. Far from it, in fact. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, Giovanna had awoken the submissive inside him that he never knew was there. Every time he was allowed to feast on her tits or her pussy, rub her feet and lick her shoes was a reward to him. He adored her. Worshipped her, even.
Back in the present, Giovanna had obviously realized that Philip’s mind had wandered. She slammed the book she was reading closed, causing the pile of books beneath it to teeter dangerously. Philip scarcely dared to breathe, in case the movement turned the teeter into a topple. He didn’t want to let her down. Not now. Not ever.
Quietly, she asked, “What were you thinking about?”
“You, Mistress. How we met, the things we’ve done…” He trailed off. He daren’t confess how much he wanted to come because if she knew how much he desired it, she might just make him wait even longer. And at this rate, his balls would soon drag on the floor when he walked.
“Hmm.”
Philip wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe him or whether she wondered what he was going to say before he stopped himself.
“You have done very well in the time that we’ve been together. Especially for a novice.”
“Thank you, Mistress. I just want to make you happy.”
A curt nod acknowledged his words. Then she stared into the middle distance for a few minutes before snapping her attention back to the pile of books in front of her and the man beneath them. She stood carefully, then pulled the chair from its position across Philip’s body.
Philip’s heart thumped hard in his chest as he wondered what she was going to do next. He worried that the thump-thump-thump would dislodge the books, but as Giovanna straddled his lower legs, he knew that there was no way he could calm his thundering pulse.
When Giovanna reached for his belt, Philip knew the books were done for. It was just a matter of time. She undid his belt and fly, then eased his straining prick out of his boxers.
Philip gulped and stared at the pile of books as though he could pin them into place with his gaze. Adding to his torment was the fact that the books being there meant he couldn’t see what Giovanna was doing. And she was a seriously unpredictable woman. The last few weeks had proven that.
A gasp escaped his lips as Giovanna’s hand wrapped around his swollen shaft and began to stroke it. Slowly, at first, then faster until Philip felt his orgasm hurtling toward him at an alarming speed. The books swayed dangerously as his lungs pulled in the air he so desperately needed. He sent a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening to just keep those books upright until he’d come. Once he’d come he could deal with anything, including any punishment Giovanna might see fit to dish out after allowing those goddamn hardbacks to hit the floor.
As it happened, the acts were simultaneous. As Giovanna’s expert fingers teased a climax out of him, the resulting jolt from his body sent the books tumbling. Luckily, the heavy tomes went off to one side, rather than hitting either of them. Even more luckily for Philip, Giovanna didn’t stop touching him. In fact, she continued to work his cock until she’d milked every last drop of spunk out of him until he was spent and gasping like a man starved of oxygen.
As he struggled to get some semblance of normality back to his breathing and demeanor, Giovanna stood and stalked away. Philip frowned. He hadn’t exactly been expecting a cuddle, but to walk away without a word? His unasked questions were answered as she returned with a tea towel from the kitchen and dropped it into his lap with a smile—the first he’d ever seen from her.
“Clean yourself up,” she said, her ey
es twinkling. “It’s month end. You’ve got some more books to balance.”
MELTDOWN
Jax Baynard
When you do what I do, you do your job better if you’re not angry. I was so angry I was shaking with it, which is why I called to cancel my one o’clock appointment. Morgan listened, then said, “Come anyway,” and hung up on me. I fumed for a minute, then mentally shrugged. It was his back.
But I walked uptown instead of taking a cab, hoping to walk off some of the fury. The cause of it was an incident with a friend, in the neighborhood of betrayal, which made for bad real estate. The relationship was probably over. The shock was made more nasty by the fact that it was a friendship of long standing—one deep into the territory where one assumed (stupidly, I was learning) that such dangers were long past. I walked and obsessed, turning it over and over in my mind, decided to call and scream at her, decided never to call again, called Morgan twice more to re-cancel and got no answer because he wasn’t picking up. Because he wanted me to come over there and beat the shit out of him? I would, in the mood I was in.
He lived in a townhouse on the park, a nondescript building in a pseudo-Georgian style, built early in the previous century. It had been expensive then and it was still expensive now. Morgan—I didn’t know if that was his real name, but it was the one we used—owned the whole top floor. I didn’t know what he did for money and I didn’t look anywhere to find out. He paid me in cash and it was none of my business. His floor had its own foyer and wood paneling on the walls and marble on the floors and carpets from Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan and a bunch of other stans I couldn’t remember. Everything I knew about interior design I had learned from my clients. Some of them didn’t want me in their homes so I also knew a thing or two about Motel 6 and the Plaza.
My clients ran the gamut. I took on anyone who followed the rules: don’t fuck with me. Okay, so there was just the one rule. Morgan buzzed me in when I rang. This man actually had a majordomo, but of course he was never there on Thursday at one. He was sent off to do whatever majordomos do in their spare time. I hadn’t gotten that far in my research. Morgan opened the door wearing what he always wore for our appointments: nothing. He was, as usual, tall and dark-haired with wide shoulders and sleek buttocks. It wasn’t a requirement for the job, but I liked his back. I had kissed it in a variety of ways every week for almost two years.
Unusually, I would have sworn he was all ablaze with suppressed curiosity. “How are you?” he asked, lambent gaze upon my face. It wasn’t concern I saw in his eyes. Nothing like compassion, but it wasn’t only lust either. I could smell it on him when I came in. Not lust for me, but for what I was going to do to him. He lusted for that. I was only the delivery girl, tricked out in black boots and leather under my staid Burberry trench. I couldn’t read what was in his eyes and it bothered me.
“Fuck you,” I said. “I shouldn’t be here at all.”
He smiled at me, a quick flash of white, expensive teeth, unruffled by my hostility. “But you are,” he said. “You are here.”
What was that? I wondered. Some sort of challenge? Opting to reject the niceties, I let my bag slip off my arm and hit the shiny floor with a thunk. My trench followed it. Morgan turned and waited for me. I swayed toward him in my black boots. No matter what you’re into, I am something to look at. My insides might be as cruddy as the next person’s, but the outside was topnotch. There was no point in being modest about it. The Ferrari dealer on Tenth kept his cars all clean and shiny, too.
I followed Morgan into the game room and he stood at the appointed spot. I got the restraints and latched them around his wrists, one at a time, being rougher than I needed to be about it. He let me manhandle him, watching my face.
“How are you, Faith?” he asked softly, and now he did sound concerned. That wasn’t my name, just the one I’d given him.
“Just ducky,” I said sarcastically and winched him up until his heels were off the floor. “What’s the safeword?” I asked him. Most of my clients only had one and we used it over and over. Morgan liked to change them up every week—not a good idea for obvious reasons, but it was mostly a formality, so I let him.
“Yes?” he suggested. Morgan’s idea of a joke. An affirmative where a negative was more helpful. I waited. An unholy amusement lit his eyes. “Forgiveness?” he suggested.
Ignoring that, I stalked to the rack on the wall. “Which one?”
He pointed with his chin to the one at the end.
“This one?” I asked, touching it, wanting to be sure of his choice. I stroked the leather handle, remarkably soft and shaped more or less like a phallus.
“Yes,” he said calmly.
It was a twelve-strand plaited Australian stock whip made of kangaroo hide, a working job. Serious. I could do a lot of damage with it if I wasn’t careful. Rage boiled up inside me, a black wash, coloring everything. “You are really pushing your fucking luck,” I said through my teeth. He flipped his wrists so that he was holding the restraints instead of them holding him. I wondered if his arms were already starting to ache. He smiled at me, feral, a look I had never seen before on his civilized face, and I snarled. “You asked for it,” I said and moved around behind him.
I snapped the whip a couple of times, limbering up, trying to think calmly. What was he after? If I knew what it was I could either give it to him or not, my choice. But I didn’t know, and the anger and the hurt running beneath it, the hurt I was trying frantically to stay on top of, made it impossible to think rationally. So I hit him. Despite my threats, I pulled a few punches. I pulled all of them, actually, practicing restraint as a cautionary measure. After a minute or two he said conversationally, “You probably deserved it.”
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“You heard me,” he said, which, of course, I had.
I snapped the whip, the fine tip at the end making a crack. If I hit him like that, he would bleed instantly. It was the same as being sliced open with a knife. They don’t pay me so much for nothing. I was good enough to be blunt, hitting him hard without breaking the skin. He jerked with the force of it.
“You’re probably a real cunt,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve thought so for years.”
That stung, as if he had turned the whip on me and hit me hard when I was least expecting it. Was I? Was that why my friend had betrayed me? The whip hung from my fingers. I waited, breathing hard, making him wait, too. I lifted my arm. “You shouldn’t have said that.” I saw him brace himself. Then I hit him, again and again, until his back was a mass of red welts, until my arm ached and instead of every strike being smooth, they fell rough and unaccomplished across his back and ass and thighs. He did not protest. He did not say anything. He barely moaned.
The part of me that didn’t feel anything, the part of me that was watching, told me when to stop, that if I kept going the welts would break open and blood would run down his back and down his legs and drip onto the impervious stones. I lowered my arm, forcing my fingers to unclench. The whip landed on the floor and lay innocent at my feet. I stood, the breath sawing in and out of my lungs. This was new. I had allowed a client to goad me into hurting him—really hurting him. I had little idea of what to do next. Apologize? Refuse to take his money? I felt hollowed out, sick, near to tears, which was Not. At. All. Like. Me.
Morgan was still strung up, balanced on the balls of his feet. I walked around in front of him. His head hung down, but he lifted it for me. No one said anything. I saw details: the harsh look of his mouth, set against the pain. The line of ropy muscle going from deltoid to bicep. The flat plane of his belly and the erection jutting upward from it. I sighed, involuntarily, and without planning to, without quite meaning to, I went down on my knees and took him into my mouth. I could take away the pain, at least for a little while. I sucked him, learning the taste of him, cupping one hand around each buttock and holding him to me when he began to pant and twist. I was as gentle as I have ever been with another human being, using just
enough pressure to send him over the edge, and I let him come when he needed to and not when I wanted him to.
I stood up, fighting my own weight, and let him down slowly. He folded neatly, an origami man, one knee under him and one up. His fingertips rested on the smooth tiles like a runner in the blocks, but Morgan wasn’t running anywhere. I went back and knelt in front of him. “What’s the safeword, you stupid bastard?” I tried to manufacture a semblance of my old self, but I didn’t sound fierce. I sounded scared.
“Dinner,” he said, not lifting his head.
Something like despair rolled through me, uncontrollable. “Wrong, Morgan,” I said quietly.
“No,” he said. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
I reared back in surprise. “Like a date?” Even to myself, I sounded suspicious.
“I don’t know,” he said, and I could hear the drag of pain in his voice. “Call it what you want. We will meet at a place where food is served. We will eat it together. When we’re done I will pay the tab. All clear?”
There was an edge to his voice now. Unaccountably, it made me smile. I sank my fingers into his hair, damp with sweat, and lifted his head so I could see his face. “Why did you push me so hard?”
The lids dropped down over his eyes, as if he didn’t want me to see him. “Fucking Christ, Faith,” he said. “It was the first sign of human emotion I’ve seen in you for two years. Of course I pushed you.”
The tendons in his neck were quivering. I released him and with a sigh he lowered his head. “At such cost to yourself, though?” I said, bewildered as well as frightened. “Was it worth it?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “That depends,” he said, “on whether or not you have dinner with me.”
I stood up. It occurred to me that he wanted to lie down right there on the cold floor and that he wasn’t going to do it in front of me. “Leave me a message,” I said, “with a place and a time.”